Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Tag: America

Great American Road Trip, conclusion

March 25, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 97

I’m standing and waiting at a hotel in Van Buren, Arkensas. The lady in line before me couldn’t take any longer if she tried. She has a ton of questions: how many beds in the room? How many rooms in the hotel? Can she have a room close to the door? She starts in on giving the poor hotel employee her and her husband’s entire medical history. Then, when I think it couldn’t get more ridiculous, she pauses and says, “oh my, your hair is so nice! Is it real?

 

I look up from my phone. I gotta see this.

 

“Um, yes,” says the female employee.

 

“Oh, it’s so lovely, it could be a wig.”

 

I’m floored that the employee standing at the counter wasn’t apparently offended. But what shocks me the most is that this lady actually finds wig hair preferable to the real deal. I have never had the bravery, nay, audacity to make comments like that. I have to give her credit. She sure knows how to hold a conversation. I had an old boss tell me one time that the key to talking to people was to talk about them or, at least, talk about what they wanted to talk about. This is true about the people who seemingly make friends easily and all over the world. They meet somebody in the airport and see that they have snorkel gear with them. They talk about snorkeling for a while, and before you know it, they get invited to stay for dinner, then the weekend. Bang, friends for life. I want that boldness. But not too much boldness, like wig lady. Invitation to stay the weekend? I think not.

 

After a reasonable night of sleep, I climb back into the car to drive to the McDonald’s for breakfast. (No Starbucks. I’m slumming it.) As soon as I turn the key an oldies station begins pummeling me with an advertisement for cars.

 

“A new car attracts better looking girls, unless you’re ugly. Take a chance. Buy a new car.” 

 

It’s early. And the logic seems sound. A+B=new car and good-looking girls. But it feels like there may be holes in that argument. Besides, I already have a good-looking girl. I’ll stick with my 2003 Subaru.

 

Slowly the approach of Tennessee came upon us and we were greeted by the skyline of Memphis in the distance. If we had any time at all, I would most certainly have recommended stopping into Marlowe’s BBQ (They will pick you up from a hotel in a pink limousine, for fee). The hill country on the Eastern side of Memphis rolls and rolls. Both deciduous and coniferous trees blind the freeway as do billboards that advertise such things as Loretta Lynn’s Ranch and Kitchen. The contrast between the land on the flats of New Mexico and the hills of Tennessee it’s fairly difficult to grasp. We drove nearly 2,000 miles on I-40 without seeing a lake. The first body of water we saw was someplace in Oklahoma. But now woods and houses-within-woods dot the landscape. Rivers snake underneath the freeway. And between the eastern border of Tennessee and Nashville, I see no less than a dozen signs for different Tennessee State Parks. It seems this place has much to offer.

 

Though California offers mountains and farmland and cities and coastline, Tennessee appears to be a good trade. Yes, Tennessee may get the occasional cold spell and the culture may be completely different. And yes, in California you don’t have to shovel sunshine. From what I’ve seen, the people in Tennessee are caring people. They say yes sir and yes ma’am. They smile and wish you a nice day. The State is far less crowded and the traffic, a breeze. Also, taxes are minimal. That’s not to say that California is evil. Sometimes, you just need different surroundings. My parents have lived in many different states. And that’s a good thing.

 

Variety creates a character observant to different cultures and people groups. Living in various places can literally make you a better person. It builds empathy and promotes love for others. A journey from California to Tennessee is more than just a road trip. Forgive the cliché. It’s more like a life trip. The same goes for travel.

 

Know a place.

 

Know its people.

 

An understanding begins to form.

 

Living and traveling to different places molds us into better Americans and better humans.

anthony forrest

Start at the beginning of the road trip: 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Great American Road Trip, Part 3

March 18, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 96

I groggily hop into the car and drive toward the Starbucks. Have I turned into a Starbucks person? Back when I worked as a barista at The Beta Coffeehouse in Cody, WY I used to say that, “friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.” We mocked the overpriced company openly, claiming the coffee shop’s lack of soul. I want my coffee made by people passionate about coffee, not a college freshman who lack motivation and doesn’t even drink coffee. But that was a long time ago. Wyoming didn’t even have a Starbucks back then. In fact, neither did Minnesota.

But here I am pulling up to the window at a Starbucks. And besides, nothing else is open this early. Such is the road life. Remind me to chastise myself later. Over the intercom, a cheerful and bright voice beckons I give her my order. After moderate negotiation, I’ve ordered two blueberry oatmeals, a black coffee, and a latte. She regales me with a musical retelling of my order. It’s so early and I can’t help but smile as I pull up to the window. She takes my card, and I’ve never been so happy to give somebody $16 in my life. 

“You know,” I remark to the ‘bucks employee, “they’ve really selected the right person for the counter this morning. You are so happy, bubbly, and cheerful. I hope you have a great day.” 

“Ah,” she giggles dramatically placing her hand on her chest, “well, bless your heart! That’s so sweet of you. Have a wonderful day!” (If you just read that without some sort of southern accent, go back to the beginning of the paragraph and try again.) It’s desperately hard to have a bad day when people treat you like that.

Road, road, more road, range, prairie, mountains, and more of the same. Hours on end, ever easterly the wheels turned. New Mexico turns into Texas, and Texas turned into Oklahoma.

What’s this? A sign up ahead.

All capital letters: HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING INMATES.

This comes as bit of a shock to me. I’ve picked up probably a dozen hitchhikers, none of which had killed me. How many were escaping inmates? It’s not a pleasant thought. I’m reminded of the joke that tells of a driver picking up a hitchhiker. The hitchhiker gets in and says that he is surprised to be picked up. He asks the driver, “what if I was some kind of serial killer?” The driver laughed and remarked, “well, what are the odds of two serial killers being in the same car?” Note to self, don’t pick up hitchhikers on interstate 40 between the Texas border and Oklahoma City.

It seems like every 10 minutes a dashboard warning light flashes in front of the steering wheel. The bright red caution sign blinks a coffee cup with the words “Caution Tired Driver: Seek Rest Now.” Gee, thanks for the advice. Tell me something I don’t know. Though I pride myself as someone who is moderately environmentally mindful, I find that my passenger seat has begun to look like the museum of forgotten coffee cups, and I the curator. At one point on this trip, I walked into a gas station and all the coffee cups bowed to me, they’re king. At least that’s what’s happened in my imagination. It is a 33-hour drive. I may be delirious.

Somewhere in Oklahoma a building on my left declares in spray painted scrawls, “Joan Jett for President.” If that’s not an American political decision, I don’t know what is. I’ve seen political statements of all kinds so far. But this is by far the most interesting. I’m floored at how vocal we are as a nation. We want everybody to know where we stand—who we support. In fields, there lie huge bails of hay spray painted with the names of candidates. Guys in hats. Trucks with affiliated flags. Subarus with 30 or 40 bumper stickers. Americans are passionate people who feel strongly for their Nation. They love it here, as they should. Back in Texas, we made it to Rudy’s Barbeque for a burnt-ends sandwich (delicious, go there). Above us hung an enormous American flag. Not long ago, I was struck with the thought that I don’t really care if America is great. All I want is an America that is good. I do not love America for its politics or politicians. I do not love America for its ethics or morality, for those things waver and faulter. I love America for the Americans—the people. I love America for the Land. I love America for the heart and soul of loving our neighbors. This Land is my Land, this Land is your Land, as the old song says. And if we get Joan Jett for President, so be it.

anthony forrest

Start at the beginning of the road trip: 

Part 1

Part 2

Great American Road Trip, Part 2

March 11, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 95

A 33-hour road trip across the country begs for more than just music. I perused the options on my phone for an audiobook. Lo and behold, the entire volume of The Chronicles of Narnia runs in approximate 33 hours. Jackpot. I’ll listen to that. But each time I hit pause on the audiobook, all I can think of is the radio jockey back in California announcing the next song and a chorus of cheesy singers blurting out:

Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees hits!

It will haunt me the entire trip.

It seems to take us longer to go through California than we had expected. In fact, we stayed the night in the thriving metropolis of Barstow, CA. We breathed a sigh of relief when we crossed the border. Gas prices dropped. The speed limit rose. Restaurant signs exclaimed their dining rooms open.

Though Arizona has much to offer, not much of it can be experienced while driving 80 mph on interstate 40. Up ahead a sign advertises a bear sanctuary called Bearizona. On my left a freight train moves in a cliched manner across a piney ridge. An RV pulls a 30-year-old Geotracker. I take a sip of my Coke zero. 23 hours to go.

And a green sign along the highway appeared to look at me in a sad fashion while I read on its face, “378 mi to Albuquerque.”

We would absolutely love to simply drive and drive, without stopping. But I drink too much coffee, and dad drinks too much Diet Coke. Besides, this trip would kill us if we didn’t stop. We seem to stop often. And then there’s the dogs. They have to walk around and drink too. The two little rascals sit in the front seat of my dad’s vehicle panting and sleeping and panting and sleeping. I can smell the dog breath a quarter mile behind him, in another car.

Somewhere in New Mexico we pull off at some exit looking for a gas station. The distance between locales with any kind of civilization keeps growing longer. We park the cars in front of the pumps and walk up to the door. It’s a dive. A sign on the door announces that the restrooms are only for paying customers and that they have to haul their water 50-miles to get it to this gas station. Of course, none of that matters. They’re closed anyway. Why would they be opened at 7:30 a.m. on a Wednesday literally right next to the interstate? No matter, I walk behind the dilapidated building and pee on a rusted over shipping container that must have been some kind of nightmarish lawn ornament for the broken-down RV sitting next to it. We drive on.

We’re desperately trying to drive the full distance in 3 days and 2 nights, really we are. But honestly, we will probably shamefully add another night. I have nothing to prove.

The sun disappeared behind us and the desert blackened almost instantly. The lack of life out here shocks me, but not for long. The road drops down into a lower plane and Albuquerque lights look like an ocean filled with orange dots.

anthony forrest 

 

Start at the beginning of the road trip:

Part 1

Great American Road Trip, Part 1

March 4, 2021 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 94

“We’re moving,” my dad said, “Heading to Tennessee.”

 

They had been wanting to get out of California for quite some time. And now seemed about as good a time as any.

 

I’m on the phone with him.

 

“That’s great!”

 

Honestly, I’d been expecting it and wanting to see them closer to us in the Midwest.

 

“When are you leaving?”

 

He answered that he had to be at his next place of work in about 2 weeks. My eyes got very big. I had already promised to help them move and drive their two cars across the country. California to Tennessee. With some finagling, I’d be able to get some extra time off work and fly to Sacramento in a couple of weeks.

 

Cut to two weeks later.

 

I stand at the garage sipping coffee, and looking outside. From the nearby radio speakers, a song by Tears for Fears declares that, “everybody wants to rule the world.” While I ponder the possibility of this declaration’s truthfulness, the song fades away and the station announces, “Continuous ’80s hits!”

 

But the cheese-ball, sing-song radio station group sings the words and pronounces each syllable forcefully.

 

It sounds more like, “Con-tin-you-us-hate-dees HITS!”

 

The sun warms me.

 

California is indeed beautiful. And though it’s winter time here too, you never have to shovel sunshine. California’s natural beauty is it’s best and most valuable resource. Mountains, deserts, ocean, and forests—California has it all. There should really be no reason for people to move out of California. But alas, there are many reasons, and most of them apolitical, though politics may be one of the catalysts for moving to a different state.

 

The cost of living is skyrocketing, taxes are outrageous, and the increasing homelessness verges on the post-apocalyptic. And don’t even think about the crime-rate. Now, people are leaving in droves.

 

As I stand sipping my coffee, I turn my head to see an enormous armored SWAT vehicle slowly (with haunting silence) coast by the house. Three SUV squad vehicles follow closely behind. And in the middle is a black van with six heavily armed officers hanging out of the sliding doors. They stop at a house a couple of blocks away and bust a huge illegal marijuana grow.

 

This is a normal thing. This happens all the time. My folks are looking forward to the change in venue.

 

So, we finish with the packing. And when the moving crew cleans out the boxes and beds, et cetera, we pack our own vehicles and begin the road trip. But before we leave, the truck driver gazes seriously into our eyes and tells us that we must stop for lunch at Rudy’s Barbeque in Amarillo, TX. My dad and I agree to these terms.

 

We left before noon. Still plenty of drivable day.

 

Ah, the great American road trip. It has been birthed out of the American culture, growing mainly from the post-world war II era. The glories of an excellent economy, reasonably priced vehicles, and an excellent highway system developed the tradition of the American road trip back in the ’50s. And starting in 1956, construction began on the interstate system. Most families had at least one car. The economy flourished. Families took to the road in search of the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, cheap camping, and Wall Drug.

 

Such nostalgia like the famed route 66 and cheesy roadside tourist traps help to make Americana what it is today.

 

But our road trip more closely resembles a scene from The Cannonball Run than a leisurely road trip.

 

anthony forrest

Americana Series, Part 4: America the Classic

November 12, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 86

Gems of a simpler time still exist.

Our rental car careened down the narrow North Carolina roads. We flew into Charlotte to get to our destination. We were in search of a simpler time, a simpler place.

We happen to really love North Carolina. On one side sits the Atlantic Ocean and promises of warm beaches and weekend getaways. But the direction we drove took us to the hilly and rugged lands of Appalachia. Most states in the US make the same claim: that theirs is the most varied or diverse. And if anybody from North Carolina says that, they would be right. Mountains, ocean, warm weather, and cool weather; what’s not to love?

The summer sun shone down through the Loblolly pines. We looked at the instructions listed on the Airbnb notes.

“I think this is it,” I said, though my voice betrayed my doubts.

The notes said to follow this winding road to some road marker, then turn right under the flags hanging in the trees.

I looked up and saw that the only thing hanging in the trees was a filthy, old, and torn t-shirt. Hesitantly, I turned the small SUV into the presumed driveway. The notes had also warned us to bring a vehicle with 4-wheel drive.

My wife turned to me some weeks before this and said, with a brightness in her eyes, that she wanted to stay in a cabin in the middle of the woods. And I, like the dutiful husband I am, obliged.

The dense forest opened to a small clearing. In that clearing sat an ancient cabin. Over 100 years old, the cabin had been moved here, electricity and water added, and promptly placed online for rental.

We felt like settlers.

With water.

And electricity.

And internet.

Our car unloaded, we set off for town.

And to the great delight of my wife, a classic americana experience lay in wait.

Nearby sits the small town of Mount Airy. Close to that is Pilot Mountain. To anybody familiar with classic television, these names might sound familiar.

Andy Griffith grew up in Mount Airy. And his namesake TV show is actually based on his life in that place. We parked our car and walked the streets. Little shops resemble the actual show of the fifties. A small museum contains a fine collection of Mayberry paraphernalia. And down the road, summer tourists can visit an exact replica of Andy and Barney’s sheriff’s office.

We opened the door and immediately, my wife sat behind Andy’s desk and pretended to answer the phone. I locked myself into the cell where Otis often locked himself after a night of drinking. Later, we took a ride in one of the Ford Galaxie replicas of Andy’s police car.

Not far from Mount Airy is Pilot Mountain, another picturesque town. As chance would have, a classic car show had just started that day. What could be more classically American than a classic car show?

“Look,” said my wife, “a Chevy Belair!”

“Hey, another one!”

We took a picture near around 20 Chevy Belair cars that day.

The unmistakable flavor of America’s glory days perseveres and will do so as our nation ages. I believe that it is human nature to hold onto a seemingly simpler past. It reminds us of who we were, who we are, and where we are going. And it is an especially American thing to remember the glories of our days gone by.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2: America the Broken

Part 3: America the Healing

Americana Series, Part 3: America the Healing

November 5, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 85

My wife and I drove our rental car past a Church sign in Delaware.

Canaan Baptist Church

It was Saturday and our flight was scheduled for tomorrow, Sunday afternoon.

“Do you think we have time to go to church?” she asked.

“Oh, probably.” I replied.

She pulled out her cell phone and began searching for the church service times and more information.

“Well,” she said, “we’ll have plenty of time to go.”

“Oh good, we might as well.”

“But,” she said smirking, “we might stand out a little bit.”

She began showing me pictures of the church’s worship service. The pictures showed a happy (and huge) congregation of Christians singing, serving, and worshiping.

And there was not a white Christian in sight.

But Church is Church, regardless of skin color. But we decided that what would stand out more than our skin color was our wardrobe. Our t-shirts and jeans just wouldn’t do. This church was more of a suit with cufflinks and dresses with white gloves kind of place.

Like a sign from God himself, we drove at that very moment past a Salvation Army Thrift store. We found a dress for her and a suit for me. All for the balmy price of $28.

The next day, we pulled into the parking lot of Canaan Baptist Church. Right away, we knew we were in trouble, but not for any skin-color reason. My Salvation Army suit didn’t seem to make the cut. Everybody was dressed to the nines. Fine pin stripes, cufflinks, Rolex watches, silk everything, diamond rings, designer dresses, white gloves; we were woefully underdressed. But it really didn’t matter.

When the doors opened there was no hesitation. Fine folks immediately welcomed us with smiling faces and strong handshakes. The building was packed. We were greeted by no less than a dozen people on our way to our seats.

The usher pushed and shouldered through the God-fearing crowd, to find us wayward guests a couple of seats. I gazed at the pew to which the kind usher had appointed us.

Third row in the front.

Smack in the middle.

As we sat down, the sun shone in through the nearby stained-glass window and landed on us like a spotlight. I began feeling even more out of place.

But soon the service started with a rumble. All of my self-centered thoughts floated away. The choir stood up, adorned with glorious hats. The organ warbled. A jazzy bass player thumped out his notes. And the tisk tisk of the snare drum rounded it out. At that moment, it didn’t matter who we were; we all clapped and sang. They pumped out song after song, one after another with no pause or transition. The choir was unstoppable—swaying back and forth, praising God above. The organist bounced up and down on her bench. The only guy in the place without a suit jacket and tie was the bassist, and he needed all the ventilation he could get. The entire pastoral staff and church leadership clapped and sang on the platform. Then, as the last song started to wind down, the pastor shimmied over to the podium and helped the choir finish the song.

He gripped the pulpit with white knuckles and the preaching started. He opened the Bible and read several verses, “amen” being cried from the other church leaders, seated behind him. He made his points with power and inflection. The entire auditorium of congregants were involved in the worship of God. Each spoke their, “amen!” and “that’s right!” and “come on!” and “bring it, pastor!” By the time the message was over, we were unified in our worship and involvement in the service.

I had never been so close to a group of people so different than myself. And it was a beautiful thing—a perfect and life-altering moment shared with another culture.

What can be said of America’s racial tension that has not already been said? In my quest to remember America’s goodness, I think about the variety of people in this nation. With so many people groups and a seemingly endless spectrum of cultures, it really shouldn’t surprise us that there would be tension.

There has been much talk recently of systemic racism. And honestly, I am not in the position to speak at length about such an important topic. Does engrained and potent racism flow systemically through the bowels of our country, poisoning the very roots of who we are?

I have no idea. But I have seen racism. And I have seen hatred.

Tension is one thing. We can work with tension.

But racism? Appalling.

A hatred for any people group, is simply shameful. And we all know it when we see it.

So how do we fix this shameful behavior?

Spotting such ingrained behavior in my own life was tricky. But I really began noticing this pattern when I started traveling. It’s amazing how all the differences between such contrasting peoples simply melt away when we sit down for a meal in their home.

May I recommend boundary-widening experiences? May I beg of you one thing?

Travel—not to places and selfie-locations. But travel to people. Find them living their beautiful and different lives.

I have heard some say that they don’t, “see color.” But I do. God created us different. And those differences make us beautiful. Those differences are actually what bind us together.  

I believe it was Michelle Obama who said that, “it is hard to hate up close.”

In a world separated by cell phones and anonymity through the internet, what could be more foreign than experiencing another’s culture up close and personal?

And when we do reach out our hands grasping for those new cultures, the people beyond that boundary generally welcome us with open embraces. We fought the Civil War. Dr King cried out for Freedom. And we came out of the other side cleansed with fire. So when we walked into that welcoming church is Delaware, America the Healing took over. And the two drastically differing peoples were able to stand side-by-side, united by a hard past, a bright future, and the desire to worship the same God. Racism cannot exist in an environment of loving closeness.

So we fight for it—every day.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Part 1: America the Good

Part 2:America the Broken

Americana Series, Part 2: America the Broken

October 29, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 84

The first time I went to Anniston Alabama opened my eyes to the South. My hotel sat in a bad part of the town that appeared to be all bad parts. I was there for a conference and wanted to get out and see what Anniston was all about.

I think my first mistake was walking into the nearest Walmart to buy some snacks. My eyes saw things I will never unsee. This place looked like the streets of Fallujah (Of course, I have never been to Iraq, but I do hope it looks better than the Walmart in Anniston.) Appalled by my, by far, worst Walmart experience ever, I left without purchasing anything.

Then as I walked down the street, I ducked into a gas station to try again for snacks. I grabbed a few things and stepped up to the counter. Facing me stood a young man, probably in his early twenties. However, he had already begun to lose his teeth at a rapid rate. His black, stringy hair hung down to his waist. And then, of course, he wore a black tank top emblazoned with the stars and bars of the Confederate flag.

“Ha-y’all doin’?” he drawled.

I dropped my few items onto the counter and asked, rhetorically, “Not a whole lot going on in Anniston, is there?” I winced at my own sarcastic tone.

“Anniston?” he exclaimed.

And without a beat said, “Ain’ nothin’ goin-on here but moonshine, illegitimate chid-ren, and drugs.”

Unfortunately, I walked away from Alabama with an unfair view of the place. But my second trip turned my compass to a truer north.

We walked into a Baptist church in the aforementioned town, a couple of years after my first experience. I spoke with many churchgoers that day. And each expressed the same thing. They all knew where they lived. They knew what it was like to live in Anniston. They knew that their town had problems. But there they stood—faithful to their community.

We finished the service and were informed that there was to be a potluck meal. As we broke bread with these people, the classic southern hospitality burned easily through my original impression of Anniston, Alabama. Each of these people had other people in their lives who struggled with something. And who knows? One of those struggles may indeed be moonshine, illegitimate children, or drugs.

America, more so than others, I think, shines as the land of opportunity. But we’ve for years thought that opportunity to be one of economic gains. Perhaps this Country grants us a better opportunity than simple jobs or money. We have here the opportunity to fail, then rise with fresh perspective and experience.

Towns full of broken families and many other problems dot America. But America is the land of grace for the fallen and second (third or fourth?) chances.

We are America, the broken. But broken bones heal stronger. We are a land of the broken families. But at the end of the day, we are still family—failures and all. We’ve fallen time and again, and always risen.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest 

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Americana Series, Part 1: America the Good

Travel Journal, 22

July 18, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Old and Older

Historical buildings and architecture fascinate me. Tall spires donned by looming cathedrals, crumbling Greek ruins, precariously leaning towers, and uneven cobbled stone roads lure me into the world. No matter where you go, most people and most cultures respect the old places. Whether you go to Israel or Boston, the oldest locations demand respect and fascination.

Jerusalem, 2015

We stepped through the ancient doorway and peered out into the Old City. When reading ancient texts, many authors, when talking about going to Jerusalem, say that they “go up” to the city. Even if a traveler is going south, they say they’re “going up.” The reason? The Old City of Jerusalem is on a hill. We looked down from the top of that hill. All around us lay the ruins of a palace. The most famous King of Israel was the King David, son of Jesse of Bethlehem; he lived sometime around 1000 BCE. This was his house. English translations on placards spoke of ancient times and doings. We wandered dumbfoundedly and tried to comprehend its age and meaning. From here, the king could see everything; the city, the wall, the gates, and even the majestic Holy Temple which stood nearby. The respect that hung in the air was hotter than the Israeli sun. And it’s no surprise. This was the place of kings and honor.

Boston, 2014

A year earlier, we were eating cannoli and gazing up at what may just be the most important bookstore in American history; at least it was. In the early 19th century, the Old Corner Bookstore began selling books and magazines. And throughout its active literary history, the Bookstore published authors such as Nathaniel Hawthorn, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and the quintessential American poet himself, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The classic post-colonial building looks like a brick barn. Its windows jut out onto the sidewalk, beckoning window-shoppers to peek within. You’d expect to see gas lanterns hanging nearby. But alas, no, a Chipotle restaurant sign clings to the façade. The whole thing looks fake—like somebody on a committee accidently approved a zoning permit, then completely forgot about it. One of the most important literary sites in the United States of America now sells burritos instead of books. What once fed minds and hearts and souls, now feeds the people what the really want. At least, that’s what it may seem like on first glance.

Part of us

To say that western culture, and specifically American culture, lacks respect for important landmarks and heritage is unfair and simply not true. Downtown Boston is full of historical landmarks, heritage sites, and museums. The owners of the building could have bulldozed it for more space. But they didn’t. It has been preserved and hundreds of people visit it daily. How else would I have known the history of the building without a nearby plaque?

Western and American culture reinvents, reuses, and integrates historical remnants into our everyday lives. In Boston, it’s difficult to know where the old ends and the new begins.

Our history is quite literally part of us.

But just to be safe, don’t make us choose between burritos and books.

anthony forrest

© 2025 Travel and Verse

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑